


Trickster God

by flinchflower



Series: Slash Me Twice [50]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Desert, M/M, Supernatural - Freeform, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:39:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flinchflower/pseuds/flinchflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt 50: Animal.  The boys find something other than a campsite in the desert.  This begins another arc of fic around the theme you find here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trickster God

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not for profit, simply a writing exercise. Herein lies Dean/Sam slash, in an AU timeline where John did not lose his life. John appears in parental context only. Follows in series from previous prompts, but stands alone if preferred.

Dean’s careful to put decaf into Sam’s cup. Neither of them is fond of cowboy coffee, but when they’re camped, there’s not much of a choice. John’s off with his contact, going to be gone for a day or so. He’d planted a hefty swat on the seat of Dean’s pants, saying “get your brother straightened out before I get back, unless you think you want a piece of the action too,” before he’d left, and Dean was inclined to take it seriously. He’s going to check later, even if he’s got to pin Sam down to do it, because the number of swats and spankings the boy’s gotten from John the last three days, he must be hurting. At least Sam promised to talk.

Sam takes a sip, grimaces. “I know it’s decaf, Dean,” he says mildly.

“It’s late,” comes the gruff answer, and he watches as the younger boy fidgets again. “Get over here.”

Sam cocks his head to one side, contemplating the request, but Dean simply raises an eyebrow, and the boy slides over to him. He carefully sets his coffee to one side, having already figured that the huge rock he’s leaned up against isn’t going anywhere, and bodily lifts Sam into his lap. The boy stiffens in anticipation, then realizes Dean’s intent and relaxes against the older man. He adjusts himself a little so that they’re both staring out into the night, not in the mood to make out, at least not with as sore as his ass is. The way Dean’s got him positioned isn’t putting any pressure at all on it, it’s a relief.

The desert night is chilly, but not too bad with the fire, and the niche they’re in is sheltered from the worst of the wind. A coyote howls, setting off a chain reaction in the low hills, and Sam shivers, as the sounds bounce and echo around the rocks. It sounds like they’re surrounded, though he knows better. Dean’s arms pull him in closer.

“Hey,” comes the same gruff tone from Dean, and suddenly Sam can’t stop shivering, can’t stop the fear welling up inside of him, and even though he doesn’t want to, he stiffens in his brother’s arms. “Just a couple coyotes, most of them are miles off, buddy.”

“I-I know.” His voice is muffled in Dean’s flannel collar, and he hopes the older boy can’t hear how it shakes, even though the shivering thing’s kind of obvious. He feels Dean’s warm hand weave into his hair, stroking the back of his neck, can feel the close regard, the intimate attention that he almost wishes wasn’t present. He doesn’t want to let go, but he’d rather face his fears alone sometimes.

The chill air and the lonely howling, they’re breaking him wide open, and with Dean’s arms around him, there isn’t anything he can do but sit there and go to pieces in his brothers arms, aside from trying to do it quietly. He focuses on the sound of the wind, the feeling of the breath in his lungs, keeping it contained, keeping it moving, because though there may be tears falling from his eyes, he’s not going to cry.

Dean’s hand keeps up the soothing pattern, and he might just relax, but then he feels his brother stiffen, feels Dean reach for the pistol that’s never far from him. “Don’t move, Sam,” comes on the next breath that ghosts through his hair.

Sam simply turns his head a hairbreadth at a time, just as Dean’s reaching for that loaded weapon at his side. He freezes as the object of Dean’s tension comes into his view – it’s a huge coyote, one that’s big enough to run with the timber wolves they’ve seen in the north. He’s not sure if it’s the tears in his eyes, but it’s shimmering. The creature sits down, neatly, slowly, and it’s tail sweeps a path in the dust as the coyote brings it round neatly. Sam can’t breathe, and he sits up, whimpering once as the pain in his backside fires up at the contact with Dean’s leg.

The dog’s ears prick forward, and it’s gaze locks with Sam’s, even as he distantly hears Dean’s muttered “Dammit, Sam,” even as he realizes the pistol is out of Dean’s reach, because Sam had been the one carrying earlier, the one on duty. His hand slips down to lace his finger’s through Dean’s, and he feels like he’s moving in a dream – dreamtime – not sure whether things are real or not, as he looks into the eyes. There’s a tapping out in the darkness, and Sam can feel Dean panicking underneath him.

Sam can’t move, though, locked in place by the dancing eyes. Then a laugh cuts through the darkness, and an old woman steps up next to the huge coyote.

“So you’re what has his attention tonight. I’ll tell you something, young man – and the guide had better listen too. You be watching tonight, for your sign. Maybe tomorrow, too, if the guide can pay attention for that long. You hear me?”

“Yes, Grandmother.” Sam’s reply is soft, and he raises his eyes away from the coyote to look at her. Dean’s back there holding his breath, not sure what to do. Sam knows his instinct is to shoot both of the spirits, but they’re on the Navajo reservation, and he knows better.

“Now look there.” She turns, and points at the sky. It lights up with blue and green streaks, and both boys catch their breath. She steps out of the firelight, and the coyote yips, follows her close. A hawk screams, swoops down just out of the firelight, and their over sensitive ears hear the death cries of the mouse caught in it’s grip. Dean’s trembling behind Sam, a quiver that began with the hawk’s cry. Neither one of them can tear their eyes from the dancing lights in the sky.

Dean’s arms creep around Sam, and Sam has a vague thought that he’d maybe like to move again, because his ass is killing him, but somehow it seems like the only link to reality he’s got. His big brother really shouldn’t be this calm, and he wonders if he’s dreaming. The lights fade out, slowly, and he hears Dean take in a deep breath behind him.

Sam carefully turns to look at him. The older man is white as a sheet, and Sam reaches up, cups his cheek, and leans in to kiss him. It lasts for a while, that kiss, and the embers of the fire are dying out. Neither one of them speaks when the kiss breaks off, and they look into one another’s eyes.

“Sam.” Dean’s voice is hoarse.

“Dad’s tattoo,” he replies simply. Coyote tracks, walking across his father’s back, with a feather at the end of the trail. A northern shaman had done tattoos for all of them a long time ago, and Sam thinks this is the answer.

Understanding floods Dean’s eyes, and he brings Sam in for another kiss, telling the younger man he understands in the only way available to him, shifts Sam on his lap so that the boy is more comfortable. He’ll tease Sam about being chosen by the trickster spirit in the morning, because he spotted the carving that the coyote’s tail had uncovered on the rock. For now though, another ring of howling surrounds them, and all that matters is the fact that Sam does nothing more but deepen the kiss.


End file.
